Acornlo
by TH89
Summary: A young squirrel orphan, taken in by the Redwallers learns a timeless lesson in the merits of violence and growing up.


It was a beautiful day in Mossflower forest. The leaves were in full bloom, and the springs jumped and the noon shadows lengthened as the sun cavorted across the shining sky. Durble the mole dibbun shambled down the road, away from Redwall Abbey, chuckling to himself in a baritone gurgle.

His nose wriggled as he noticed a rustling emanating from the bushes. A brawny otter appeared, chuckling at his clever trick.

"Ploos don't krill me koind h'otter zurr! Hurr! Burr! Durr!" exclaimed Durble in fright. But the burly amphibian cackled merrily and slapped the dibbun on the back, nearly bowling him over.

"Yaharr! Don't you worry about a thing, little matey!" the otter assured him. "Say, you look like you could use a good bath, young'n!"

"Hurr crap!" intoned the mole, and began to scuttle away, making for a nearby grove of trees.

"Yar, you little rapscallion!" said the otter, gracefully taking off after the dibbun. "I'll get you y--euuugh!"

The otter looked on in horror as an enormous arrow seemed to grow from the center of his chest. He burbled a little, foamed, and then collapsed in a quivering mess, blood jetting from his wound.

"Warn...the abbot..." he whispered, his eyes glazing over in death.

"Buh!" affirmed the mole, quite used to this sort of thing--he lived at Redwall Abbey, after all. He took off at a clumsy run, making toward the abbey.

A hideously scarred stoat emerged from behind a nearby tree, knocking a second shaft to his longbow. He had no eyes, and only one ear which was hanging only by a tiny thread of skin. His nose dripped blood, and his body was covered in tribal tattoos. His namesake, a gigantic fang, protruded from the center of his upper jaw, giving the impression of a newly hatched lizard. He was covered from head to toe in mismatched armor, cloth items, and other garments. The desiccated skull of a beetle hung by a string from his muscular neck. He grinned evilly, eyeing the corpse of the slain otter.

"Yer dead, thanks to me--Hatefang the stoat!" he jeered. He kicked the otter's head as it lolled around in the gore-soaked dirt. "I'm gonna have me mole pie vittles tonight!"

Blood continued to pool about the mutilated visage of the former otter. Just in case you forgot. He's dead for real now.

"Father Abbot! Father Abbot! Come quick!" came the cry, more urgent this time.

"All right, I'm coming, my son," the abbot assured the voice, laying his copy of the Cryptonomicon gently on his desk. He pushed his spectacles up onto his long snout and made his way to the door.

As the abbot opened the door, the idealistic young squirrel recoiled for a moment before catching himself. The abbot must be given due deference...even if he _was_ a fox.

This unfortunate fact had been causing nearly unbearable racial tension about the abbey ever since the last abbot, in a fit of drunkenness induced by an over-aged flagon of October Ale, had appointed the fox to become abbot in the case of his death. He then proceeded to stagger to a nearby window and tumble to his doom.

Even the most civil-minded of the Redwallers gave the new abbot a wide berth, and spoke to him only when absolutely necessary. That Acornlo the squirrel was coming directly to his office spoke much about the urgency of the situation.

"What is it, my son?"

Wincing visibly at the word "son," Acornlo nonetheless explained hastily, "There's been a murder, Fo--I mean, Father Abbot! Skipper of Otters is dead! You must come quickly!"

The abbot lifted his skirts and danced down the stairs after the squirrel, passing the infirmary on the way. He dashed out onto the abbey grounds, spotting a number of creatures clustered near the cloisters. As he reached the circle, he shoved through, revealing at the center a frantic mole dibbun and a young mousemaid trying frantically to comfort him.

"Oi surr a h'otter 'splode arrer squish bam! Hurr durr!" cried Durble.

"I'm sorry, what?" asked the abbot. "I don't speak--er, mole."

"Skipper's been shot with an arrow!" explained the mousemaid, whom the abbot tentatively identified as Flower.

"Oh, dearie me," said the abbot, tugging at his whiskers nervously. "Where is he now?"

"He's out on the road!" cried the mousemaid, bursting into tears and sending the dibbun into further hysterics.

"Are you sure he's dead?" asked the abbot. "Has anyone checked? Dibbuns aren't the brightest of things, bless their little souls. He could be mistaken."

This did little but garner a few glares.

Hatefang the Stoat staggered through Mossflower forest, dragging the rotting Skipper behind him. Sunbeams glared downward through the trees, casting a mottled glow upon the ground. Butterflies leapt and played amongst the flowers, and birds chirped and chattered at each other hundreds of feet above. Hatefang licked his lips hungrily, awaiting with anticipation his return home. Otter was his favourite sort of meat, particularly good roasted to a crisp.

The mole could wait. He had doubtless run back to the big red abbey, but no matter. More baby moles would come. They always forgot these sorts of things.

Suddenly, a dark shape leapt out from the corner of the stoat's vision. He turned, reaching for his knife, but it was too late. A longsword buried itself in his hideous face, the blood-soaked blade protruding nauseatingly from the back of his skull. He gave a small gurgle.

"Right ho," exclaimed the hare, watching the stricken Hatefang fall backwards. "Haven't a clue how I'll get that one out, wot wot!"

The hare eyed Skipper's bloody carcass. The otter's eyes were frozen open in an expression of shock and agony, and his tongue hung limply from the side of his mouth. His lips were covered in dried saliva bubbles and blood, his face bloated almost beyond recognition. His dashing green tunic was splattered and stiffened with arterial fluid,

"Poor bugger," he said pityingly as he emptied the stoat's pockets. A comb, some acorns doubtless stolen from some hapless squirrel, teeth of all description, and--rats--no money. "Cut down in his prime, eh? Looks like one of the otters stationed up at Redwall Abbey! I never did miss one of their famous feasts, wot wot! Wot!"

Leaving the otter and the stoat for nature to do with what it would, the hare strode purposefully off in the general direction of Redwall. His stomach grumbled ominously, and the fall leaves crunched beneath his feet.

And then the chapter ended because the author got bored pretending to write Redwall fan fiction.


End file.
